


He Thinks He's Made A Grave Mistake

by dametokillfor



Series: Cold As A Stone, Rich As A Fool [4]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, M/M, mentions of other pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/pseuds/dametokillfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Kostya Kuryakin, Illya and Gaby’s only child. Napoleon’s godson, nephew, surrogate son. His voice sounds older, more tired than the last time Napoleon heard it. He supposes that’s what twenty years, and losing one’s father does to a man.</i>
</p><p>--- </p><p>At Illya's graveside, Napoleon's nephew, Illya's son, has a few choice words for the man who abandoned his family when they needed him the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Thinks He's Made A Grave Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Title officially from I'll Never Forget You by Birdy. Mostly though, I couldn't resist the pun. Blame Hannibal, morbid puns are hilarious to me atm.
> 
> Kostya Kuryakin is a character you will recognise if you've seen Kingsman, I haven't tagged him as I thought it'd be more fun to let you guess. If you haven't seen Kingsman, then you need to get on that. Seriously, I'll wait.

The cemetery is cold, despite the blue skies and golden sunlight. Napoleon’s hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his thick jacket, he’s shrinking in on himself to conserve what little warmth he has. He doesn’t know if the air is cold, or if he’s just feeling the absence of warmth that comes with losing a loved one. 

He’s used to that coldness now, has been living with it for twenty years.

“Mum said you’d drag yourself here eventually.” A familiar voice says. Napoleon doesn’t jump at his voice, but it’s a close run thing.

Kostya Kuryakin, Illya and Gaby’s only child. Napoleon’s godson, nephew, surrogate son. His voice sounds older, more tired than the last time Napoleon heard it. He supposes that’s what twenty years, and losing one’s father does to a man.

He doesn't know how long Kostya had been standing there before he’d finally announced his presence. He's getting old, his hearing isn't what it used to be. Time was he'd have known in a second, made the chubby little boy giggle and squeal because he'd caught him out. Now they could have been stood together for hours, and he'd have had no clue.

“She had expected it to be a little closer to the funeral, not three months later.” Kostya speaks up again, “Personally I’m surprised it was so soon.”

(Napoleon had been at the funeral, unofficially. He’d watched silently from afar, as Illya was lowered into the ground. He should have been there, been with his family, been with Gaby as she had cried into Kostya's dark wool jacket. Kostya had held her close, whispered into her hair, something Illya had done to calm her during her hellish pregnancy.

Kostya had never resembled his father, with his dark curly hair, and dark eyes, but in that moment, the likeness had been agonising. Napoleon had been glad of his distance then, as a sob caught in his throat and he had thrown up in the trees.)

Napoleon doesn't say anything, doesn't acknowledge Kostya’s comments. He just stares at the cold grey marble marking Illya's final resting place. 

_Illya Kuryakin,  
Father, husband, friend._

It's so plain. It's cut Illya down to almost nothing, three generic words that tell nobody anything about Illya. About the drunk karaoke king, the man who would argue why Picard was better than Kirk with Shatner himself, the man who passed out in the delivery room when his son was born, the man who hated Christmas but would eat a whole Christmas cake, with cheese if you let him.

The second great love of Napoleon’s life, his great unrequited love. 

Napoleon can feel the hot tears sliding down his cheek. He’s angry at himself for crying in front of Kostya, in front of someone who actually has the right to be hurt by Illya’s passing. He should be strong, and stoic. 

“I’m sorry, Kostya.” Napoleon says, and he's surprised by how broken and old he sounds. He's in his 80's, but has never felt it until this moment, standing in front of the grave of his friend, with a nephew in his early 50’s. 

“For me, for mum, or yourself?” Kostya asks. It's harsh, but nothing less than Napoleon deserves.

“I should have been here.” 

“Yes, you should.” Kostya snaps in that rich English accent he picked up growing up in the English countryside, “We needed you. Mum, Dad, me. I shouldn't have had to stay strong watching my father die.”

“I was afraid, I was selfish.” Napoleon admits, “I couldn't watch him die. I didn't even think about you and Gaby having to.”

“Cowardice, then. Mum suspected as much.” Kostya sounds disappointed, “I wanted to believe you were better than that, even after so long.”

Kostya sounds like a lost child. He's not a confident, smart middle aged man in that moment. He sounds like the little kid who hid in his cupboard after he accidentally broke Gaby's ugly horse figure, like the teenager who confided In Napoleon about having a crush on a boy, like the drugged up 24 year old who begged for help.

“Kostya.”

“It’s [Harry](http://i.imgur.com/A3YQFbS.jpg).” Kostya corrects him, “Kostya is for family. You lost that right when you ran.”

“ _Kostya._ ” Because even now, Napoleon is a shit.

“He was asking for you, when he died.” Kostya tells him, looking over to him for the first time, “Dad had his entire family with him, Mum, me, my partner. All he needed was you, and he’d have died surrounded by the most important people in his life. He’d have died happy.”

“Kostya,”

“ _Harry._ ” Kostya insists again, “Like that spy you told me stories about when I was a child? Harry Hart, remember? Kostya Kuryakin isn’t a name a lot of people would trust in my line of work, but Harry Hart, that’s a name people trust. At least, I did.”

And Napoleon’s heart is breaking, because despite everything, Kostya, _Harry_ still admires and idolises him. He isn’t surprised Harry figured it out. Harry Hart’s exploits were thinly veiled stories of his own missions with Illya and Gaby. (Aleksandr and Bette). 

"He told us why you left. A final mission, undercover as gay rights activists, as a couple who had been together for thirty years.” 

And Illya had spent the week looking so fondly at him, holding his hand, speaking so lovingly about their fictional relationship and how he wanted nothing more than to call Napoleon his husband. It had been so convincing. It had been too convincing.

It had been so easy for Napoleon to kiss him when they’d got back to their hotel room after one dinner with their target. They were a little drunk, fine wine going to their heads. Illya had kissed him back, and it had been the greatest few seconds of Napoleon’s life. (He still remembered every note of Illya’s taste, his scent. He still remembered the feel of his face under his fingers, no less handsome at 60 than it had been at 30, than it had been when Napoleon had finally accepted that _fuck_ , he was so in love with him, with Illya, not Freddie’s spectre.)

Illya had come to his senses, had pushed Napoleon away from him, apologised. He had reiterated that he just didn’t feel that way about him, and that they were too close to this mission. He loved Napoleon, just not in the way Napoleon needed him to. He’d joked that he understood why so many people fell for Napoleon’s charms, and Napoleon’s heart had broken. He’d hidden it with a quip, _if I’d been turning on the charm, Peril, you’d be naked already._

They’d played the part, they’d completed the mission, stopping the bombing of the gay rights protest and then he’d gone. He’d left without as much as a word. 

He’d meant to be gone a few weeks, a few months, just long enough for it to stop hurting, but it never stopped. 

And twenty years later, Illya was gone and his son was berating him for being so scared and Napoleon never got to apologise, never got to say goodbye. 

"You are a coward, Napoleon.” Harry tells him again, “You think Dad would hate you? Mum would hate you? They knew you were in love with him, before you did. _I_ knew you were in love with him. You think we would have hated you for a moment of weakness?” 

“You act like it’s so easy.” Napoleon snaps, “You have no idea, Kostya. Harry. What the fuck ever you want to call yourself. You act like you know what it feels like…”

“To see the man you are completely gone for with someone else every day? To hear ‘you’re my best friend, but I’m not gay’? To be assigned to work alongside someone undercover as their lover, and know the adoring looks they give you are an act?” Harry snaps back, “You think you are the only person who has fallen in love with the wrong man? The only queer who has fallen in love with a straight man? Боже мой.”

Napoleon can see the hurt on his face, and he’s hit with a stab of guilt so powerful that he doesn’t know how he even stays standing.

“I needed you there when it happened to me.” Harry tells him, and his voice is small and lost again, “I wanted to talk to you, to tell my Uncle about the man I was in love with, because I knew that he would understand in a way that nobody else would. Instead I did it alone. I suffered through a bone deep obsession for ten bloody years, _by myself_ because there was nobody to turn to. I fucked my way through so many men to try and get him out of my head, because I knew that’s what you did, and that was all I knew about how you coped.” 

Napoleon wants to reach out and hold him. Harry was 30 when he’d left, and Napoleon had assumed his nephew was old enough to handle things on his own. But then he was in his 30’s when he’d realized he was in love with Illya, his best friend. He hadn’t felt like he could handle it alone either. If Harry had gone through even an ounce of the heartache Napoleon had, then he should have been there for him.

“And when Dad got sick, we all needed you.” Harry tells him, “They had each other, they had me, and my partner. They needed you, they didn’t want to tell me how frightened they were. I didn’t want to tell them how frightened I was.” 

His voice is shaking now. 50 going on 7, and Napoleon has never felt as shitty as he does right now, watching this grown man, usually so put together, trying to stop himself from crying at his father’s grave, over his deadbeat Uncle. 

“Harry, I’m sorry.” He reaches out a hand, rests it on Harry’s shoulder. It’s not enough, Napoleon knows it’s not enough, how could it be? But he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say, to do. What else do you say to someone you have betrayed so deeply?

“So am I.” Harry tells him. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he looks across at his father’s gravestone. 

“You’re right. I was a coward. I should have been there, I should have faced up to my actions.” Napoleon says, “I should have been there for you, for Illya, for Gaby. You’re my family, and I shouldn’t have run away because I made a stupid mistake.”

“It wasn’t your first.” 

“Wasn’t my last either.” 

Harry's smile is bitter. There are tears in his eyes, and Napoleon hates that he's one of the reasons. 

“I never stopped thinking about you. All of you. Were you happy? Were you safe? Did you find someone? Did you have kids? Grandkids? A dog? Did Gaby ever get her Aston Martin? Did Illya ever -?” 

_Forgive me? Tell Gaby? Tell you?_

_Think about the kiss? Wish he hadn't stopped? Wonder about us?_

A long silence passes between them. It’s awkward. Napoleon stood with a hand on Harry’s shoulder still, Harry staring at the bland gravestone. Napoleon pulls his hand away, slips it back into his pocket. He stares at his feet, doesn’t feel like he has the right to look at the name in front of him right now.

When Harry does speak up, his voice is quiet, “Moneypuppy.” 

Napoleon is sure he's misheard him. He looks over to him, and there's a smile on his face. 

“My partner, James. His dog was named Moneypuppy. He moved in, brought her with him. She died about three years ago.” Harry clarifies.

“Moneypuppy?” 

“We work together, same industry, so he likes to think he's James Bond.” Harry explains.

The look on his face is one of fond exasperation. Napoleon recognises it as one he's seen on both Gaby and Illya's faces. They had probably seen it on his more than once. He's glad Harry is happy, glad he's found someone. 

“You'd like him. Though I imagine you’d be unbearable together.” Harry smiles. He looks over at Napoleon, his smile still intact. Napoleon can't help but match his look.

“Maybe if you're staying, you can meet him.” Harry sounds hopeful, sounds small and young again, but it's not as painful this time. It sounds like a boy who wants to show his family something special, who is offering his crap uncle something to hold onto, an olive branch of sorts.

“I'd like that.” Napoleon says, “If you're sure you can trust us.”

Harry puffs out a little laugh, as if it's something he's developed a contingency plan for. He’s a smart kid, _man,_ he’s probably got a folder of them.

Harry looks back at the gravestone, his smile turning wistful. Napoleon watches him for a long moment, watches his head bow and his smile falter. There are tears brimming in his eyes again, and God, it hurts to see him look so pained. 

A good man would wrap his arms around his nephew, would hold him close and let him cry into his shoulder. He’d cry too, let one of the few people in the world who knew how much this hurt comfort him. 

The man Harry had grown used to, to resent, to hate would slink away while he was distracted. He’d run, and hide to lick his own wounds. He’d continue to be selfish and Harry wouldn’t have to go through this pain again when Napoleon’s own mortality caught up with him. He wouldn’t even need to know.

Napoleon takes one final look at the gravestone before deciding exactly what kind of man he is.

**Author's Note:**

> RIGHT, NOTES TIME.
> 
> 1) This is OFFICIALLY the final part of this series. However, I do possibly have an unofficial standalone coming soon which a magnificent anon on Tumblr suggested. 
> 
> 2) James is also a Kingsman character. If you listen carefully in the first scene, you'll hear Merlin call Jack Davenport's character James. James and Harry are my Kingsman OTP, and I have written about them as well if anyone is curious. 
> 
> 3) My general headcanon for Harry's past is that he had an abusive father, and he was an 80's drugged up club kid. ("True nobility is being superior to one's former self.") I used the drugged up club kid part here, but I don't think Illya would have hurt his son in the slightest.
> 
> 4) As a kid, this Harry idolised his Uncle Napoleon. Napoleon would teach him how to use his charm, how to steal and all sorts of things that Illya would probably threaten to wring his neck for. I like to think that Illya introduced wee Harry to entomology, and taught him how to collect moths and butterflies in a vague attempt to stop his son from turning into a complete terror. (See: the pinned insects in Harry's house).
> 
> 5) I personally think Napoleon would have hugged Harry, but I'd like to know which alley you think he chose.


End file.
